Imagine—in front of us—they silently pass. And they believe unrelated
objects are machines
for recognizing the human. And, again, we are no longer interruptions.
Imagine—in front of us—the beginning is not a study. And they believe
the cicada's larva
reveals narrow secrets. And we accompany: to form, to shape.
Imagine—in front of us—a beautiful garden. And they believe color is the
where we abandon our too sudden bodies. And, here, we are carriers of different
Imagine—in front of us—each word devolves a lexicon. And they believe
shape shuts on a hinge
within the voice they fable. And, here, we slaughter the spring lambs.
Imagine—in front of us—they pass us between nature, between history.
And they believe the door
frame alters the curtains' flow. And we are a dark summer moving against oceans.
Imagine starlings circling in a postcard's blue. And they believe oration is the living
thing, the end
of geometric space. And here, in full sunlight, we are gifts hoisted to the vanishing